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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975353">Deluge</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gxlden/pseuds/gxlden'>gxlden</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bleach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Universe, Light Angst, Mention of Blood/Violence, Multi, Sexual Content, ginran - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:27:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gxlden/pseuds/gxlden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s sick, isn’t it? That Gin can stand to lie beside someone like <i>her</i> and yet dream of someone like <i>him.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aizen Sousuke/Ichimaru Gin, Ichimaru Gin/Matsumoto Rangiku</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deluge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>in which gin is an emotional masochist and slut and we love him for it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gin has always liked to wander, and because he likes it, Rangiku will tolerate it. After staying still for so long, he needs to move, and she joins him despite her long day and aching feet and straining back. The concert ended almost an hour ago, and they’ve been strolling through the nearly-empty Seireitei streets ever since. An impending rainstorm is riding on the back of the wind, weighing down the air with a hint of humidity and the taste of electricity in the clouds.  </p><p>“The guy playing the shamisen was cute,” Rangiku lilts. </p><p>“Enomoto? I heard he’s hooked on opium.” </p><p>“Really? He doesn’t look like the type.”</p><p>“What does the type look like?”</p><p>“Probably more like you.”</p><p>“Good one.” It’s not opioids that Gin is addicted to, but he does have a persistent yearning for certain highs -- darker, more dangerous ones that aren’t as likely to leave him dying quietly of an overdose in the corner. If he dies chasing this bliss, it’ll surely be more dramatic. Or at least done with some style. </p><p>“Do you think his captain knows?” </p><p>Gin thinks there’s a chance he doesn’t. Kyoraku isn’t an idiot of course, but the officer has never missed a single shift, never fallen asleep on duty, never had his judgement called into question despite how often he frequents the den in West Seireitei. “Gotta respect the man’s sense of duty,” Gin says. </p><p>“How do you know all this?” Rangiku asks, skeptical of Gin’s gossip.</p><p>“People don’t pay me much mind,” he shrugs. “You’d be amazed at the shit folks will say when they think they’re alone.” </p><p>“You mean you eavesdrop on strangers.”</p><p>“It’s a bad habit, ain’t it?”</p><p>“One of many.”</p><p>A portion of the eastern sky is illuminated with a sharp white light and a low grumble of thunder shakes the air. They exchange a look, acknowledging the end of their walkabout. </p><p>The first few raindrops are hitting the pavement when Gin slides the door shut behind them, surrounding them with the darkness of his empty apartment. He doesn’t need any light to seek her out; his arms wrap around her waist from behind and he grips his own wrists to lock her in his embrace. She moves her head, letting him find solace in the crook of her neck. Air rushes over her skin as he inhales and breathes out, giving her a chill. Their footsteps fall in an awkward cadence as they fumble towards his bedroom together, refusing to release each other. </p><p>The bed is still laid out from last night, the sheets cool and unmade. The lazy arrangement of pillows and blankets on the futon is welcoming and Rangiku makes herself right at home, undressing before she even touches the mattress. Gin follows her down, stumbling as he sheds his socks and hakama. He can’t waste any more time with Rangiku right there, naked on her back, golden hair spilling across his pillows and staining them with her scent. </p><p>“The concert was beautiful,” she says as he presses his lips to her stomach. “Thanks for taking me.”</p><p>“It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs, his lips moving up, up, up to kiss her collarbone and neck, his hands sliding between her legs. Everything about her is familiar, comforting. Soft and smooth. The sounds she makes are more enchanting than the strings and chords from any musician, the way she moves more mesmerizing than any dancer or actor up on stage. If Gin were more poetic, more forthright, he’d tell her she’s a work of art as he lifts her thighs up and slides himself in between.</p><p>“Use your nails,” he tells her. Legs wrap around him and she pulls her face into his neck as she drags her filed claws down his back. He eats away at the space between them until it’s nonexistent, draping his body wholly across hers as he fucks her, friction and heat. Skin against skin, tingles along his spine, a breath in his ear and at the same time they both gasp, “Harder.” </p><p>Later that night, cocooned in warm sleep, Gin dreams of nails on his skin. Short, precise edges of keratin trailing all over his body, a tickling irritation that raises the hairs on his neck. They’re not the same nails that dug into his shoulders or ran through his hair earlier, scratching his scalp until he fell asleep; they’re strong, broad, and flat. A man’s nails, with dried blood caked beneath them. His captain’s nails, running through the shallow dips between his ribs, over and over, grating his nerves to warm sizzling shreds. The scratching turns to tearing and Aizen is peeling long, thin strips of skin from Gin’s chest with a clinical smile on his face, leaving him red and exposed, just muscle and bone. Gin doesn’t move, though his legs twitch like he wants to run. Heavy raindrops pound the roof so hard he is afraid they will break through and the ceiling will collapse on them as he lies back and watches Aizen dissect him. </p><p>It’s only a dream. It’s not scary, just disarming, as Aizen usually is. When the fingers curl assertively around Gin’s ribs, his mind refuses to play along any more. Instinct kicks in and wants to protect him. A self-preservation that he thought he had abandoned long ago wants to keep his psyche intact and doesn’t like him indulging in any fantasies of being ripped apart by the only constant in his life, happily mutilated by the touchstone against which he measures all his grit and his cunning and his resolve. </p><p>The silhouette fades and Gin wakes up, gentle and confused because he can still hear the rain. He can smell the petrichor through the open window. A late summer storm that doesn’t threaten to break through the roof or drown him in his own bedroom surrounds the outside of the building in a gray haze of wetness he can taste on his tongue when he inhales again. It dawns on him that everything playful in his life turns to punishment in his unconscious. The sweet rain outside becomes a downpour; the light scratches turn to gashes, pulling skin from bone with every breath; the woman he refuses to love becomes the man he’d once vowed to kill. Pleasure turns to pain, but it is getting harder for him to know which is which. </p><p>Guilt builds up in the welts on his back. It’s sick, isn’t it? That Gin can stand to lie beside someone like <i>her</i> and yet dream of someone like <i>him.</i> There are a hundred situations that Gin could find himself in that would be more appropriate than this, a hundred reasons why he doesn’t deserve this. </p><p>When he passes his hand in front of Rangiku’s face, warmth pools on his palm with barely any breath behind it. She’s dead asleep, drowned in blissful unconsciousness. Deciding there’s no need for any extra precautions, Gin carefully slips out of bed and out of the room, pulling on the first robe his fingers land on. </p><p>Restless energy pushes him outside and into the rain. A lot of the walkways connecting the barracks and offices are covered, so he could stay dry if he wanted, but he kind of wants to feel it -- the wet kiss of raindrops against his face. Thinking cool water on his sleepy skin might somehow soothe him, Gin steps barefoot into the grass and starts walking. </p><p>The days hover on the brink of fall, bringing a chill into the night alongside the rain. The hairs on Gin’s arms stand at attention as the rest of his body wakes up, breaking the tired strings that trail behind him. Slowing his pace, he curls his toes down into the dirt where mud and sheared blades of grass stick to his heels with each step. It’s refreshing, sure, but it doesn’t quite manage to calm his disquietude. The elements might distract his body but his mind is still woefully free to wander.</p><p>Under the cover of night and rain, Gin might as well be invisible. If he were to take to the streets of the Seireitei, he doubts that anyone would be able to make him out among the black and gray shadows and silver flashes of falling rain. And if they did see him, what would they think? Pale, barefoot, dripping wet in the middle of the night in an almost translucent white yukata, he could easily be mistaken for a ghost. Unfortunately for Gin, and perhaps fortunately for everyone else still out wandering at this hour, a chill has decided to creep up on him and play games with the feeling in his fingers and grass-covered toes. It won’t let him meander for much longer.</p><p>A few dirty footprints leading up to the bathhouse are the only indicator of his presence as he fumbles with the faucet in the dark, quickly spraying the grass off his feet. He doesn’t even wait for the water to warm, so there goes another cold shock running through his system. A good remedy might be a warm bed and a soft body, but Gin is still restless and isn’t ready to go back to his room just yet. Outside, he wonders where else he can go. </p><p>The answer doesn’t exactly surprise him, but it does sneak up on him with silent feet and a cordial smile. </p><p>“Having trouble sleeping?”</p><p>“What gave me away?” A tiny puddle has formed beneath Gin’s heels at the entrance to the bath. A still-clinging drop rolls from his hair to his cheek and he wipes it away with a wet sleeve.</p><p>“Something on your mind, Gin?”</p><p>“Nothing of importance.”</p><p>“You’re all wet.”</p><p>“I wonder how that happened.”</p><p>An amused look spreads across Aizen’s face, pushing his eyebrows up and tugging on the corner of his lips. Out walking in the rain in the middle of the night, Aizen probably thinks Gin is a little bit crazy. </p><p>“We can’t afford to have you getting sick now. Come inside and warm up.” Out of those wet clothes, he means. “I’ll fix you some tea.” </p><p>A perfect storm of innocent words and less-than-pure thoughts. </p><p>“You got it, Aizen-taichou.”</p><p>In step but following an obligatory pace behind, Gin joins his captain on the way back to his private quarters. The storm crescendos around them and it’s probably a good thing that Aizen came to collect him when he did. The wind blowing through the division intensifies the wet chill that has Gin missing the sanctity of his bed and the feeling in his toes. </p><p>The room is dark when they arrive, and quiet, aside from the soft ticking of a clock somewhere. As the doors slide shut behind them, Gin can hear a murmur of thunder in the distance and remembers his dream, the pounding rain that worried him more than the blood on Aizen’s hands. </p><p>“You were in a dream I had,” Gin says suddenly, looking over where he knows the couch is. He thinks about sitting down and making himself comfortable, wet clothes and all. </p><p>“A starring role?” Aizen’s tone betrays his amusement. He flicks on a lamp and half of his face is illuminated in metallic gold light; the other half is still hidden in the shadows. Picturesque duality. </p><p>Gin scolds him for his ego as he strides over to the couch, “Not everything is about you Aizen-taichou. Sometimes it’s not about anything at all.”</p><p>“So more of a cameo then?” Aizen grins. “Tell me -- what was I doing in this dream of yours?” he asks, effortlessly casual, like the answer doesn’t matter to him at all and he’s merely inquiring out of some contrived sense of politeness. The content of the dream is relatively insignificant since Gin already went and admitted that he was invading his unconscious, but Aizen can’t help his genuine curiosity. While he might just be crazy, Gin is still an enigma to him, a variable he can’t completely predict. </p><p>“Same thing you’re always doing,” Gin says as he undresses, letting his yukata slide dramatically off his arms and collect around his heels in a damp pile of cotton. “Getting under my skin.” Cold, wet skin. A snake in water, barely leaving ripples behind as he slides onto the couch. </p><p>“Is that really what I do to you?” Aizen sounds like he doesn’t really believe him. Following suit, he shrugs out of his long-sleeved haori and lets it crumple on the ground beside Gin’s clothes. The simple lack of respect for the garment and everything it is supposed to represent makes Gin scoff.</p><p>“Among other things,” he drawls, voice rising with mirth. “Shall I go into greater detail?” At the same time he speaks, Aizen settles a hand on his bare chest, hard against the base of his sternum. It’s strong, rigid bone that feels like it might crack under the warmth of his fingers. </p><p>“You’re cold.”</p><p>“I’m always cold.”</p><p>Aizen sits down beside Gin’s legs, crushing them against the back of the couch as he makes himself comfortable looming over Gin. At first, he just touches him, wiping away the last lingering sheen of rainwater from his chest and stomach with the trailing sleeves of his kosode. Half-heartedly warming him up, but mostly just exploring the familiar territory, as if he hasn’t already learned everything about Gin’s body, memorized each curve and plane on his sinuous form. It’s a slow, purposefully arduous process and Gin still can’t really feel his toes. He decides to bury them under Aizen, digging in between his butt and the cushions to try and warm them up. </p><p>Seeing as they are an uninvited and unwelcome intrusion, Aizen quickly abandons his transect of Gin’s ribs and grabs his feet, pulling the wiggling toes free. Raising his ankles up, he pushes Gin’s knees towards his chest and then pauses, staring. Just folds him in half and looks at him, exposed and cold and soft and pale, the backs of his thighs slick with the thin film of rain that has soaked him to his restless bones. </p><p>“What about my tea?” Gin asks. </p><p>“After.”</p><p>Something jumps in Gin’s stomach and there’s a feeling like he’s drunk spreading across his chest and his arms. Spurred on by that excitement, the sudden arousal at the simplicity of Aizen’s statement and all that it implies, he pulls his legs free and sits up, grabbing at Aizen’s shirts as their lips meet. Even though he is quickly pushed back down onto the couch, the contact between their mouths doesn’t break.</p><p>For once, there’s no rambling pretense, no ruthless banter and calculated advances to lead them to the same conclusion they’ve reached dozens of times already. All Gin gets is a pointedly vague admission that they’re just going to get right down to it and fuck, plain and simple, and he feels <i>relieved.</i></p><p>It smells like almond oil as warm fingers slick with cold press against him. When he’s first breached, Gin can almost feel the heat inside himself. Sensation refuses to return to his toes as long as he has them curled in the air, legs burning with tension on either side of Aizen’s waist as he works his fingers inside him. </p><p>Gin watches him with unabashedly open eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind Aizen’s expression, curious what price he’ll make him pay this time. Inevitably, Aizen will say something or do something that reminds Gin that this doesn’t come without strings attached. It always has to be a game for them, with ever-changing rules and penalties and even sometimes long, drawn-out strategies. Over the course of hours, days. It is always exciting whenever Gin realizes that he’s found himself caught up in one plot or another, traversing through a whimsically woven web. Some days he is the spider, and some days he is the fly. Sometimes it’s too close to call when their webs get tangled up together in the same corner of a room of thought. It happens quite a lot, actually. </p><p>All of that knowledge waited patiently in the back of Gin’s mind as he walked through the wet grass and even now he’s not entirely sure who sought out whom. After all their years together, they just can’t leave each other alone. And now, he’s ready for the next move, licking and biting his own lips as Aizen pushes inside him. His hands readjust to hold him comfortably and there’s a steady buildup of movement, a few rough kisses pressed to his naked chest, but no talking. The speed and force gathers and steals Gins breath, leaving him chewing on all the things he could say but can’t spit out because of the way Aizen is fucking him. </p><p>There’s no deception, no teasing; Aizen doesn’t play with him. Just fucks him on the couch like any man would, touches his cold skin like any man would. Gin waits, his nerves frayed from friction and anticipation. It’s great -- that rough, heavy slide; the pressure; the little flames on his skin where Aizen’s hands are holding him -- but he’s still expecting a catch. He’s waiting for him to do <i>something.</i> </p><p>Then he realizes that Aizen doesn’t need to do anything, because Gin’s already done it: Rangiku is asleep in his bed and he can still feel her on his skin, and that is enough.</p><p>Gin opens his mouth and hisses, “Harder.” </p><p>Gin’s skin is dry and more closely resembling a normal body temperature when they finally disengage, breathing heavy in the dim room. After a final hip-to-heel journey down Gin’s legs, Aizen releases him and reclines in the furthest corner of the couch. From there he can watch, sated and amused, as Gin ambles awkwardly towards the bathroom, picking up his pace when he feels a wet trail creep down the back of his thigh. </p><p>This time, Gin lets the water in the sink run until it’s warm before cleaning himself up. There are some splotchy areas of skin around his navel and nipples in the shape of teeth marks, and the mirror reveals a few noticeably darker spots plotted across his neck and collarbones in methodical, equidistant increments, but it’s nothing a little kido won’t take care of. His hair has dried into a mess of matted spikes, particularly in the back where his head rolled and pressed into the cushions of the couch. Running a few wet fingers through the thread-thin strands shapes it into a more passable bedhead, devil-may-care. He lets the water return to a refreshing cold before splashing his face and rinsing his mouth, the taste on his tongue no longer belonging to her. Then he switches off the faucet and looks at his reflection in the mirror, curious as to how he’ll feel once he steps foot outside Aizen’s room. </p><p>“Would you like to shower before you go?” When Gin withdraws his focus from the shadows under his eyes, he sees Aizen’s reflection leaning in the doorway, partially redressed with an unflattering olive green robe over his shoulders. His hair has settled somewhere between the soft tousled mess of the captain and the slick mane of the mastermind and there’s still a hint of color in his cheeks, a fading red flush that Gin can’t fully appreciate secondhand. </p><p>“Nah,” he turns away from the mirror to face the real thing, grinning as he leans against the sink, “I’ll be okay.” Something about the way that he refuses to erase the traces of his captain from his skin makes Aizen draw close to him with a pleased smile on his face. While their relationship has never been possessive or territorial -- they are each their own person, two distinct individuals capable of functioning independently of one another and making their own decisions -- having Gin return to his own bed, to a woman who undoubtedly loves him even though she’ll never admit to it, with the smell of another man on him proves that there is a perverse, unspoken loyalty to each other; a dogged dedication to the game that they play. </p><p>Years ago, any tenderness from Aizen would have put Gin on edge, made him flinch at gentle touches and surprisingly nice words. All tensed up like he was waiting for the blow. But he’s learned that there’s actually another side to his captain: a strange sentimentality, at least when it comes to Gin. Because he is his favorite pawn, his protégé, or his plaything, Gin does not know exactly what it is that makes him so endearing to Aizen, but he accepts the affection anyway. It’s nothing new to feel Aizen’s hand caress his cheek in the same way that people will lovingly polish a trophy or a memento on their desk, a testament to their own accomplishments. </p><p>“I should get going,” Gin suggests, even though he covers Aizen’s hand with his own and holds it there. Part of him wants to turn his head and kiss the broad palm on his cheek; part of him wants to draw blood with his teeth. There’s a soft tugging on his arm, a manifestation of his conscience telling him to get back to his own room and stop playing around. </p><p>“It’s still raining.”</p><p>“It is?” In the silence that follows, Gin can hear the smattering of raindrops hitting the roof and pinging on the little windows above the bath. It’s loud enough to drown out the rustle of fabric and skin as Aizen withdraws his hand from Gin’s grasp and relocates it, resting on Gin’s naked waist to counter his intent to leave.</p><p>“Why don’t you sleep here tonight?” </p><p>“I sleep better in my own bed.”</p><p>“How would you know?” Aizen is smiling. “You’ve never slept in mine before.”</p><p>It’s true. Despite the number of times Gin has found himself spread out on Aizen’s mattress, he’s yet to fall asleep in it. Aizen’s never before offered, and Gin’s never asked. It would cross a strange line that Gin can’t even begin to identify.</p><p>“Well, that would be inappropriate, Aizen-taichou,” Gin jokes, as if the bruises around his neck and the ass full of cum were the picture of propriety. “A superior taking advantage of his subordinate in such a way… Shame on you.”</p><p>The yukata on the floor is still wet and clings uncomfortably to Gin’s back and thighs, cold and heavy on his shoulders. Aizen doesn’t say anything as he watches his lieutenant fumble with the cumbersome dampness, squeezing a few drops onto the floor as he tightens the sash at his waist. They exchange a quiet nod, saying their silent goodbyes as Gin slips back out into the night. Simple and straightforward; Gin kind of likes it that way. Sincerity and niceties would only mess with his head more. </p><p>Like, how can he sleep with a man like him and then go to sleep next to a woman like her? </p><p>Surprisingly easily. </p><p>Skirting puddles and dripping eaves, he thinks about trying to muddle through some healing kido so he can alleviate the marks on his neck, but it turns out he doesn’t need to. The futon is empty when he returns, but if he had really wanted her to be there when he got back, he could’ve knocked her out with any number of spells. </p><p>Gin peels off his damp yukata and crawls back into bed, his head clear and finally quiet. There’s a shallow hollowness in his chest where he knows his guilt should be, but it remains empty as he drifts off to sleep. Completely unperturbed. In the morning, only fragments of his dreams knock about inside his head. Innocuous images building up to inane symbolism. The marks on his neck have grown a shade darker and he frowns at himself in the mirror as he places his own hand over his throat to wipe them away. He spends too much time in the shower scrubbing his skin until it’s pink and he has to scramble into his shihakusho and flash-step the whole way to the main office to make it in time for the morning briefing. </p><p>“Good morning, Gin,” Aizen greets him cordially as he stumbles in and promptly hands him a stack of papers.</p><p>“Morning, captain.” Gin accepts the documents and begins flipping through them, preparing himself for the day’s tasks with calculated professionalism. </p><p>“How was your night last night? Sleep well?”</p><p>“Like the dead,” he answers without missing a beat. Their attentions are both focused elsewhere and the conversation is as casual as it could be. Even Gin has a hard time believing they were together last night, Aizen wiping rainwater from his skin and fucking him like he actually liked him. “The rain calms me down.”</p><p>“Does it now?” Aizen hides his incredulity incredibly well. </p><p>“Yup. Something about the sound of it outside on the roof,” Gin picks up a brush and signs his name on the deployment authorization sitting at the top of the pile, “and the smell… it’s nice. I love sleeping with a window open when it’s raining.”</p><p>“I suppose you’re in luck then. We’re expecting rain all this week,” Aizen notes, making sure the ink is dry on the page before sliding the form into the outgoing mailbox on the shelf. After ticking something off on a checklist on his desk, he motions to the door and asks, “Shall we?”</p><p>“Yes, Aizen-taichou.”</p><p>The week marches on like soldiers and it doesn’t just rain -- it pours, relentlessly. Torrential showers assault the white stone and orange tiles of the Seireitei for three days straight, drowning all the low points of the streets. The runoff system carries what it can out of the city and ends up flooding a few districts in the southern Rukongai. Leaks spring up all over the place and the fourth and seventh divisions are swamped with all the repairs. </p><p>The air is gray and cool and soaks everything to the bone. The world gets heavier, saturated and wet.<br/>
Thunder shakes Gin’s room at night and when he opens an eye in the darkness, listening to the rattle of the shelves and feeling the vibrations through the floor and futon beneath him, he can see sickly white lightning illuminate the emptiness around him. The syncopated sounds of rain beating the tiles on the rooftop leave no room for silence. It doesn’t leave room for anything, or anyone. </p><p>Gin sleeps alone, his windows opened wide and cool wind brushing over him while he dreams of nothing of importance.</p>
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